


And I could pretend that it won’t but it’ll be my ruin too

by Buttercup_ghost



Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Angst, Hanahaki Disease, M/M, New Dangan Ronpa V3 Spoilers, One-Sided Attraction, One-Sided Relationship, Spoilers, Unrequited Crush, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-01-10
Packaged: 2019-02-14 17:53:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13013046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buttercup_ghost/pseuds/Buttercup_ghost
Summary: I’ll hold my tongue from idle speech to keep my mind fedDid I trade intent for futile means in the process?I guess there’s a whole in the bottom of my head my sense has fallen out(or; there's a poison more potent and deadly than any other, out there.)





	And I could pretend that it won’t but it’ll be my ruin too

There has always been poison in kokichis veins.

It itched, squirming under his skin, his blood stream contaminated. He wanted to tear it out, to claw at his arm until he teared the skin, ripping out veins and poison and life, life, life.

He wanted to puke, it was sickening. This feeling. Himself.

He never puked, though—only coughed and coughed and coughed until nothing of his heart remained, flowers and petals covering his room, getting in his way of papers and plans, getting in his way with everything.

How stupid of him, to fall in love at a time like this.

There's blood.

Blood in his throat, blood in his sink, flowers scratching and scratching him raw, this love a scrap that no bandaid can heal. 

Not that anything could heal him anyways, even without this sickening disease, running water getting rid of the bitter, bitter taste of flowers.

He smiles, but it's more of a grimace. 

 

 

 

Gonta is dead, dead, dead. He's still alive, and he hates it. He smiles wide, like the gapping smile in a white mask, to wide to be real, to sharp to be natural. And he laughs, laughs and laughs and laughs because not even the so called detective can see through his lies. Maybe even he can't see through his lies.

"You're alone, and you always will be."

He chokes, smiles falling onto the ground, shattering like glass. His hands come up to his mouth, a choking sound as he tries to swallow the roots down. But he can't, he can't, he can't. He can't stuff his love back down, down, hide it and pretend it doesn't exist. Does it exist? Is this love? He's lied so much that he's uncertain, anymore, but the splatter of blood and the plop of petals—no, a whole bud—are real. He's not sure if he even could fake such a thing, fake the pain his face contorts into, as he coughs up dirt and water, the left over hues of the disease. Theres a flower growing in him— there is a poison growing in him. Or maybe, he is the poison. He doesn't really care.

There faces are shock, pity and doubt mixing in. He cursed under his breath. That pathetic (beloved) detective just had to go and say that, didn't he? His plans start to fray at the edges.

"H- ha! You should see your faces right now," he tries to speak, only a touch of his wavering anxiety reflected into his voice, "you really fell for that?" A cruel laugh rips out of hoarse throat, self loathing undetecticted by his class. He really hates himself. He wonders if it's even more than he loves saihara, but pushes the thought away at the metallic taste of blood and the bitter taste of acid start filling his mouth.

And they all buy it, glares and anger at him and– wow, they really hate him, don't they?

Its a good thing, he tells himself, a sickly smile still pulled onto the edges of his face, a frame work, a blank canvas, for his lies to be painted onto.

Even saihara glared back at him, albeit not as harsh as before, confusion and uncomprehendtion folding into his eyes despite himself. Like he wants to believe it's a lie, so he forces himself to. It's so hypocritical that he laughs.

Its so hypocritical that when he's locked in his room (if it was unlocked they'll kill him, they'd kill him) he chokes, a new bouquet for his lovely detective.

 

 

 

And then he's smiling again, wide, wide, even wider. He's explaining, grinning, hating every moment of it. He wonders if he slit his wrists, bleed and bleed and bleed, if the poison in him would dissipate, just like this meaningless, meaningless smile, this meaningless lie, meaningless life. He can't stop laughing, laughing at how pathetic it all is. He's only just playing pretend, always only playing pretend.

Kaito is shouting, yelling. And then he's isn't, in his grasp like a dead weight, but he's still breathing. He's still alive. Unlike kokichi, he isn't a corpse, yet. 

He still alive, in his soul. It doesn't matter, though, because his body will go no matter what.

Kokichi would relate, if he hadn't killed his heart himself, a long, long time ago.

Or maybe that's just how he was written, in the end.

 

 

The press is coming down, down, down. He has to time it perfectly-- pause, pause, pause. The arrow in his shoulder burns, his spine tingling as if set ablaze. There is poison thumping in his veins, and flowers in his lungs. He doesn't care. It doesn't matter. Nothing in his fictional, fictional life matters. How foolish of him, to fall for a fake detective. Everything here is just made of lies. He stops the press, and the (fake, fake) astronaut steps out. 

He notices his expression, and a (bitter) amused smile spreads like (his blood will) jam onto toast.

"Did you think I wouldn't keep my word?" He asks, humming.

Before kaito can respond though, he's doubling over (not much time, not much time) coughing and coughing and coughing.

Unlike with the forth (way to many) trial, he doesn't choke on the petals, doesn't try to force them down to the back of his throat and swallow, blood and bile and flower, flowers, flowers. He's to weak to. He doesn't play it off as a joke, as the plop of blood and petals fall into the floor. Unlike with the fourth trial, kaito realizes that such a dreadful disease cannot be faked.

and his eyes widen.

"Its saihara," kokichi chokes out, before he can ask, and it almost sounds like a sob.

Silence fills the room, before they get to work.

 

 

At the end of the day, he's not sure if he died by the press. At the end of the day, he's not sure if the arrow is the thing that does him in. At the end of the day, he's not sure if saihara, and this sickening love, love, love, is the true culprit.

Its not like it matters.

There has always been poison in kokichis veins.


End file.
